


Brain Freeze

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [25]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode Tag, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post "Before the Flood": Clara forgets how to swallow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brain Freeze

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: Post 9x04, Clara realizes that she really has forgotten how to drink liquids.

There are words Clara has forgotten. Other things as well, potentially. She hasn’t forgotten anything important though, so far as she can tell. She remembers her love and her fear and her grief, she remembers the knot in her chest. She remembers, although she doesn’t particularly want to, the mounting dread she is running from.

She remembers that she can kiss the smirk off the Doctor's face, now. She remembers that he’ll kiss back. So she does. What else would she do, in this situation? One hand grabbing his lapel and the other threading through his hair. Holding on maybe a little too tightly, kissing him a touch too demandingly. So what if she’s being obvious, honestly. She’s earned the right to be desperate. She knows he’s desperate too. Peas in a pod, hurtling through space and time, towards each other. And so what if they crash eventually. After a day like today - so fucking what.

He tastes like stale sweet coffee and the chemical undertone of whatever technology 150 years of suspended animation entails. He’s holding her gently, tenderly, but he should know by now what she wants. No making love, no candle-lit bullshit, just the goal and the chase and their raw, untempered need. She wants him rough and gasping, nothing held back. Obligingly, he lowers his arms, curves his hands around her arse, digging in, pulling her flush against him.

Specifically, right now, she doesn’t want to fuck. It’s tempting, with his cock and her cunt in such close proximity, but no. Not now. She could take a minute to consider what that means, what her headspace is like right now that she wants the upper hand, but she won’t. Maybe later.

And he follows her lead, like he does so often these days. Set the pace, push him down, follow his gradual collapse to the floor. The engine thrum rattling through her bones.

 _Don’t you dare ever leave me_ , she thinks fiercely, knowing he’ll hear it.

She kisses him again, slower this time, languid and deliberate. Smiling against his lips, reaching down to unbuckle his belt, unbutton his trousers. A firm, possessive grip on his cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. _You’re mine._

It’s a rush, like it always is, seeing the look on his face. How easily he falls apart for her. A god in her hands, trembling, vulnerable. Saying her name like a prayer. The quiet little gasp he makes when she cups his balls, her fingernails scraping lightly, carefully, across the sensitive skin. She could do anything to him right now, anything at all.

She slides down his body, valiantly trying to ignore what the friction does to her, and settles between his spread legs. She yanks his trousers down, jumper and t-shirt up, kisses her way down the line of grey hair dusting his belly, nose through the darker, utterly untended thatch at his groin, tongue down the length of his cock. He’s squirming, rapidly hardening, making tiny helpless noises - oh, what she does to him, and what that does to her.

She pulls back enough to see his face, to memorize this. For posterity’s sake. Head back, mouth open, tendons straining in his neck. She smirks, and goes back down with a vengeance. The precise application of suction, her index finger pressing into the spot behind his balls she’s learned is the quick route to his disintegration. Somehow finding it inside herself to formulate thoughts: _mine_ and _now_ , commanding.

He squeaks, and lets go.

She’d meant to swallow, honestly. She doesn’t even realize she hadn’t until she’s staring at the mess of cum and saliva she’d deposited on his right thigh.

“Sorry,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Not sure what happened there.”

“It’s fine,” the Doctor murmurs. “I mean, I’ve only got the one pair of trousers and I might have accidentally jettisoned the laundry room, but. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve worn pajamas in public.” His accent thicker, near-incomprehensible, like it tends to be post-orgasm. A low rumbling burr, and the slack, sloppy look of satisfaction on his face, and the part of her that isn’t panicking wants very much to take him up on the standing short-refractory-period offer and fuck him through the floor. The alarm bells going off in her brain are louder than her arousal, though.

“Right-o. I’m just gonna go grab a glass of water.” Bright, chipper, smiling a very convincing smile. She dashes off to the kitchen.

This is simple stuff, baseline basic, she cannot actually have forgotten how to swallow. Tap water, splashed into an “I hate Mondays” mug, squared shoulders and the assumption that everything is fine. With some trepidation, she takes a sip. Holds the water in her mouth, swishes. And then leans over, opens her mouth, and lets the water fall out. Oh no. No no no.

“I’d meant that as a joke, the liquids thing.” The Doctor is leaning against the door frame, staring at her, eyebrows raised. Trousers still undone and hanging low around his narrow hips, which frankly isn’t fair, considering she is experiencing a serious crisis.

“Yeah, well.” She takes another sip and spits it instantly out onto the floor.

“D'you want me to…teach you? How to swallow.”

“Is that innuendo or are you genuinely offering?” She’s drooling a little bit, which might undercut the biting-but-also-sexy tone she’d intended to say that in.

“Both,” he says. He gives her a crooked grin, sidles into her personal space, guiding her down onto the kitchen table. “If you’ll allow a slight psychic intrusion, I think I can remind you what to do.” He runs his hands up her stockinged thighs, under her dress.

Her back against the cold Formica, the uneven table legs wobbling back and forth. A neatly-wrapped mental package: _babies can do it I’m sure you can too._ Human anatomy diagrams, throat muscles, thumbs-up emoji.

“Do not make me think about babies when you’re doing that, please.”

“Reap what you sow,” he says, voice muffled, head buried between her legs. “Besides. Pretty sure babies are an occasional end-result of sexual activities, so.”

“Shut up,” she gasps out. But it’s okay. She knows he’s an idiot. And all things considered, forgetting basic motor functions isn’t the absolute worst thing that could have happened to her. She takes a shaky breath, squirms, digs her fingers into his hair. Pulls him closer, closer. Let go, learn how. It’ll come back, it will. She’s always been a quick study.


End file.
